


Light

by Sapphicsarah



Category: The Doctor Blake Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-11-29 04:40:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18218339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sapphicsarah/pseuds/Sapphicsarah
Summary: Lucien kept reaching for her.





	Light

Lucien kept reaching for her.

They rarely touched, and when they did, it was always appropriate. But during that nasty business with Jack, something had changed. He had reached out with an unsure hand and had placed it on her cheek in comfort. She had been trembling, the tears slipping down her face unchecked, and her voice had cracked with the strain as her world seem to crumble around her.

Her Jack. He was still so young, but he was tall now, whereas her mental image of him was still as a young boy. His hair had been longer, and his face rounder. He had always been filled with mischief, but he used to smile at her after doing some trick, or wreaking havoc on an unsuspecting neighbor. He had always turned to his mother as if to say ‘Look! Look at what I did!’ 

He didn’t really care anymore what his mother thought, and hadn’t been back to see her since he was cleared of the murders. He was out of her reach.

But Lucien, Lucien kept reaching for her. It had started small, a soft reassuring pat on the elbow, a nudge when they shared a smile, and then a hand on her shoulder at the end of the day as they stood side by side in the kitchen. That touch in the surgery, however brief and however many months ago had been like a conduit, like the last straw that broke the camel’s back, the drop of rain that overflowed the dam.

She hadn’t noticed it at first, but then she had started to expect them. The reassurance and the friendly comfort of touch that was a product of being close to one another. She hadn’t experienced intimacy like that for a long time, and she started to feel something. Perhaps it was an affinity that had been there since the beginning. They had always liked to tease one another, and they did live well together. Yes, it had started with some rough seas, but it had been smooth sailing for almost a year.

And yet, she hadn’t expected this. For now she started to crave the touch of his hand on her. It was always him reaching out, seeking to bridge the gap, to close the space between them. She never reached for him. Although there had been once, when he had cradled her face in his hands in the sunroom. His eyes had looked into hers, and everything had come roaring into place.

_Oh_.

She had wanted so badly to pull him to her, but the phone had rung, and they had sprung apart and had not mentioned it again. Every morning she woke up feeling empty. 

…

The Lord worked in mysterious ways, and on the anniversary of Christopher’s death Jean found herself walking through her old house. His ghost was not there, nor were the pencil marks on the wall where Jean had measured her boys as they had grown. The little markings were painted over, probably years ago. The house felt smaller, and the fields had seen better days. Her children were not playing in the garden, and their animals had long been replaced by other livestock. But her plant, her plant was still there. It was exactly the same. A bit larger, of course.

Like the land and the house and the trees, she too had changed. She had outgrown the little life on the farm, and she knew deep down that if she had stayed, it would have been a hollow life. Her husband would have been alive, if not for a silly fight, but what kind of life could they have shared together? Their dreams were so different, and Jean felt torn apart at the idea that she was glad to have left that little plot of land behind.

The years of mourning came howling back, and all she could think of was her guilt. Her Christopher, dead. He had died all alone in a far flung place, without her there to comfort him. She would have given anything to be with him, and in her memory he had stayed young, while she grew older. She was haunted by him, and the weight of her sorrow was in the laugh lines around her eyes, in her hands and shoulders, in her belly where she had carried his children. He was still a part of her, and the heaviness weighed her down until sometimes she felt like she was moving through deep water. On the anniversary of his death, the weight was the heaviest. She hunched over with the pain, and her movements were stilted and unlike her normal graceful walk. Her hands felt clumsy, and her body was stiff with wanting.

She expected it every year, and greeted the day like an old friend. The sound of the death knock echoed throughout the years, and the pounding of the fist against the door was like a drum hammering in her chest. She went back to the place where her life fell apart, and looked on the remnants of her former self. Christopher was not there, but the grief lingered until she found herself in the garden.

Lucien offered to help, although it was an empty gesture, one made more out of politeness than anything. He knew she would brush him off, but he offered all the same. And when he stood too close she began to cry, and the heaviness became intolerable. He reached for her cheek again, like he had before. He touched her, and she felt some of the heaviness lift, like fog rolling away from the fields.

He wiped her tears away once, and then twice. And then he held her hand.

“I’m still not ready,” she said.

He smiled, kindness in his eyes and understanding in his fingertips as they softly caressed her wrist.

“Maybe this is the beginning of you being ready.”

The thought was alarming, glorious and frightening. After all, she had grown used to the weight, and the lightness she felt every time he touched her was almost unbearable . And yet, when he moved away from her she clung to him, like a drowning woman reaching out. She held on, until he moved away to the house. She looked at the plants and at the garden she had grown over the years. She looked to the sky and the trees that lined the garden wall. The sun shone down on her hair, and the birds were singing.

_Regardless of whatever happens next._

She turned the words over and over in her mind and closed her eyes as she listened to the birdsong. Tomorrow, the sun would rise and she would rise with it. The garden would continue to grow, and the trees would still be there. Mattie would chatter over the tea, and Charlie would hurry through his breakfast in order to get to work. Lucien would smile at her from across the table, and she would smile back. And he would reach for her, and look at her in a way no man should look at his housekeeper, and she would look back at him.

Lucien had his own sorrow too, and Jean thought perhaps they could learn to wade through the murky waters of grief together. She smiled at the thought of ‘together’ and opened her eyes to look at her home. The golden light of early evening cast long shadows, and the house was glowing in the dying of the day. Soon, the soft darkness would come and she would sleep, but she had work to do before she could rest.

So she went in and started on supper, and busied herself with potatoes and carrots, onions and garlic. She hummed along to the tune that drifted in from the study where Lucien was playing the piano. It was an old song, one they had sung together before, and she felt the familiar sounds wash over her, until she grew warm and soft and _light._


End file.
